


A New Dance

by FaerieChild



Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:13:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22091626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaerieChild/pseuds/FaerieChild
Summary: John Grey left his home as a boy of eleven after being accepted into the prestigious Royal Ballet School. Now grown up with a professional dance career, John has recently taken work with a modern dance company who decides to start off their next project with a work retreat a remote studio in the Scottish highlands.
Relationships: Jamie Fraser/Lord John Grey
Comments: 17
Kudos: 77





	A New Dance

**Author's Note:**

> There's a bit of a habit of calling rural parts of a country 'the middle of nowhere' and it often feels unfair. For those who make it their home, it simply isn't true.
> 
> There's a line from the film Legends where Reggie Kray says, 'The centre of the world can be anywhere you like'.
> 
> This story is a work of fiction, but inspired in part by the existence of a real dance school that made the centre of their world in the place they loved the most.

Touring was an accepted part of the life of any entertainment professional working in the UK. Theatres were spread around and with the rare exception of London’s west end, shows had to constantly move to find new audiences and keep bringing in money. Lord John Grey didn’t work because he needed the money, he worked because it had become his life.

Trained from a young age in the rigid discipline of classical ballet, John Grey had recently shocked the ballet world by his choice to move to a company with a more modern-dance outlook. Unlike many of his colleagues, John had the patronage of his family to keep him afloat between contracts. Although at times it felt like more of a mixed blessing than many outsiders imaged it to be. For John’s older brother Hal, John’s obligations to his family were all about prestige, and family name, and excellence. Small matters like his brother’s happiness were worth only minor consideration.

For John, his family and life and work had always been centred on London, the city that he loved. Always changing, always moving. It had a creative energy about the place that felt rooted in the ages. Decades and centuries of theatre, creativity and art. A city that constantly reinvented itself. A city with vitality, and constant interest.

The last thing in the world John wanted to do was be exiled to some remote corner of Scotland for some supposedly important ‘teambuilding’ weekend.

“The dance school is small but is gaining international recognition for their excellence and we have been lucky enough to secure funding from an anonymous donor for the core company to spend a long weekend there as a sort of retreat, you might say, to begin work on our next project.”

John Grey cleared his throat.

“John?”

John nearly insisted on being addressed by the title he almost never used – Lord. It was absurd and archaic, but in a society that still placed far too much attention on class it had its uses. “I’m not entirely clear how this benefits us?”

The director smiled politely with his mouth, and exuded ire with his eyes. “In what way?”

  
“Well we have a rehearsal room right here in London.”

There were echoes of agreement throughout the rest of the dancers present.

“I realise you’re new here, John,” The director paused, with faux-patience that betrayed his real feelings of frustration at being openly questioned. “The point, clearly, is to have a retreat where as professionals we can all focus on work without everyday distractions.”

“This would be the distractions of, say, family obligations. And social lives?” John probed pointedly.

“Precisely,” The Director nodded. “Finally, I think you’re getting it.”

John opened his mouth to speak again and was quickly cut off.

“Now if there aren’t any more questions we can get on with the important business of the schedule...”

John grumbled as he sorted through that week’s delivery of ballet shoes, hand made specifically for his foot by specialists right here in London. Just like most of the institutions of his world, and its patrons, and the businesses they frequented. Quite why they were being given marching orders to some godforsaken corner of the middle-of-nowhere John had no idea. Childhood holidays exiled to that ghastly northern region that liked to call itself a country had indelibly scarred him for life. He remembered the place as cold, grey, damp and miserable. Concrete and pavements littered with rubbish and chewing gum while you got mild hypothermia from the arctic wind or drenched by never-ending inundations that fell from lead grey clouds stretching from horizon to horizon. The purgatory of country drives recalled memories of miles of nothingness, treeless landscapes and only the lonely crows croaking forlornly.

He remembered attempting to make friends and the local children bullying him for his accent to the point where he gave up and stayed on his own and focused on his dance. A sort of solace. If an unhappy one. Now it was his life, and he couldn’t deny there were things about it he rather enjoyed. It was as a teenager coming of age that the gay nightlife of London had been his saving grace and suddenly his background as a dancer came into its own, sparking a newfound enthusiasm for a career that up to that point had felt rather more like some sort of prison.

Voluntarily putting himself out in the middle of nowhere, away from everything of importance to him was not John’s idea of a good time.

Worse was yet to come. Some arse in what passed for PR had apparently agreed to some sort of magazine coverage. Publicity was unfortunately a necessary part of the job but now some wanker American was meant to be flying in specially to gush at them all and point a lens in their face.

John, it hardly needed to be said, was not in the mood.

When the time came for the journey to begin they were loaded onto a coach and sent on their way. It would take a day to get there and a day to get back, turning what they had been told was a three day trip into a five day trip with travelling time. If it wasn’t worrying about which dressing room was haunted or losing your best jock strap a career in the performing arts meant persistent arguments, alcoholic colleagues, the lights not working and the alleyway outside the stagedoor reeking of stale urine. And then there were the woes of travelling. Trains and buses. Delays and cancellations. Constant filth and background noise and tiny toilets of questionable hygiene. The life of a dancer on tour was not always as glamorous behind the stage as it appeared from the other side of the fourth wall.

After hours on the road they finally arrived. The place itself was off a single track road, up a gravel drive lined with Scots pines. A large yard contained the Jekyll and Hyde duo of a renovated Victorian hunting lodge and some supposedly award-winning modernest building joining onto it. The director was keen to impress that the dance school offered a variety of classes and courses at all levels, as well as tutoring a small core of residential students who were currently away.

As John stepped off the bus he glanced at the rest of the company. Many of them much younger and less sure of themselves than him. With the Director all but abandoning them to go and congratulate himself on his spectacular idea, John did a quick head count and put on a positive face. A gentle joke brought them all on side and John reminded himself to stop wallowing in his feelings and focus on more practical matters.

“Its been a long bus ride so regardless of what the Director thinks, I’ll be taking half an hour to settle in and then going to the studio to do some stretches and barre work before dinner. I would suggest you all do the same.”

There was a ripple of agreement through the assembled company and someone jokingly called him ‘Dance Captain’.

John considered it unlikely that The Powers That Be would appoint him to that position. The personality clash was too strong and John was slightly worried that the director looked so gleefully happy at their isolation. John eyed him warily. Still, difficult personalities came part and parcel of the sector. As everyone else began heading towards reception, John took a moment to pause and take in the view. They were at the end of a glen, with nothing for miles but moor and rocks and beach. Heather, sheep and moody skies. There was a sort of beauty in it, he supposed, if one liked that sort of thing.

And a sort of desolation.

At the offices of the local community newspaper, volunteer photo editor Jamie Fraser was putting the finishing touches to the arrangement of the centre page spread of class photos from the local primary school.

He smirked as he heard his sister arguing in the background over the phone. “Visa problems?” Janet Fraser said, in a manner that sounded more like an interrogation than a question. A quick glance over his shoulder and Jamie saw Janet had her hand on her hip.

Òbh. Òbh.

“So let me get this straight. You’re trying to tell me that some hotshot professional photographer had visa problems getting into the country and you’re phoning the local _community newspaper_ right here in Broch Mordha to see about a replacement?” Janet shook her head. “What sort of idiot do you take me for?”

Before the person on the other end could respond, Janet Fraser slammed down the phone.

  
Jamie looked up. “Problem?”

“Prank call,” Janet shook it off. The phone rang again. “What?” A few words were all it took for the voice to reveal itself as the exact same one Janet had just rung up on. Her patience wearing thin, Janet held the phone away from her ear. “Jamie! Your call!”

Jamie sighed and rolled his eyes and got up to go over.

“Jamie Fraser speaking...”

Later at the pub, talking to his Godfather over a pint, Jamie related the story.

“Janet thought it was a prank call.”

“What exactly did they say?”

“A whole lot of nothing mostly. Seems there’s some dancers visiting the new dance school down the road there and some glossy magazine who covers that stuff was sending a photographer. But they’ve had problem getting here. Visas or something. They need someone here to cover the first day of rehearsals.”

“So call a freelancer,” Murtagh raised his hands. “God knows its not like Scotland is short of photographers. Make ye wonder what the hell is going on in their heads.”

“Aye, well, I tend to find that no good comes from dwelling on that sort of thing,” Jamie smirked and took another large drink.

“They called the _community newspaper.”_ Murtagh exclaimed.

“They found themselves in a bind and were looking for a local online. They saw my pictures, the arty ones.” Jamie glanced at Murtagh. “I didn’t want to put my own number up there so I used the newspaper’s.”

“And they still called?” Murtagh queried. "You?"

“Aye,” Jamie agreed with snort. “I’m well aware its, ‘ _Any port in a storm_ ’. I’m just a backup until they can get their man in. I’ll get a basic fee for my time and additional payment for any photos they use.”

“But you don’t photograph people! You photograph blackface sheep and highland cows and Grannie pines out on the muir!”

“You’re not insulting my family’s highland cows, I hope, Murtagh?” Jamie said seriously, and then they laughed together at the absurdity of it all and then toasted the work. In these parts work that paid was a blessing, and most people turned their hand to whatever would bring in some cash. The line between professional and amateur wasn’t as clearcut here as in some other places. Jamie would be daft to say no.

The following day Jamie dressed in his usual jeans and a t-shirt and put a jacket in the car. It looked worse than it was outside. For all that the sky was dark most of it would blow over and the temperature was mild. The photography was mostly a hobby, a craft his mother had taught him. She had taught him well but it was always a sideline, selling a few prints to local galleries for the tourist market. He kept a presence online and occasionally got a bit of cash in the quiet months from nostalgic ex-pats wanting moody photos of cows.

At the dance school John Grey took five minutes outside to breathe in the fresh highland air and pray for his blood pressure to go down. The director and choreographer it seemed had rather different ideas from the company about how this weekend should go and John had been stupid enough to let it get to him. The whole point of the switch to the new company was for a better quality of life. While John had suggested letting everyone go for a walk and see their surroundings, the director was overkeen to start rehearsals straight away. John, meanwhile, was keen to make sure everyone was fed and looked after, and were well rested enough.

Last night after dinner the Director had suggested a short impromptu rehearsal. John had rebelled and insisted he needed to take care of his feet and then catch his beauty sleep. Once John had set out his stall, most of the company had followed his example.

It was turning into a battle of wills. But John had to think of his own welfare and that of the company. Too many dancers had their careers ruined. Bodies permanently damaged or injured from pushing themselves too hard.

This morning he had tried to clear his head with a run along the beach. His legs had woken feeling the inactivity of the day before and were eager to be put through their paces.

Their rooms were in the old part of the campus. The studio was in the newbuild with a well appointed dance studio and a stunning view out along the sea front. The staff were minimal on account of a school break, but those that remained were all locals, with rather endearing soft-vowelled accents and excellent cooking. There had been no problems with the food, none of the inevitable arguments that usually appeared over the peculiarities of dancers dietary requirements. There wasn’t exactly much in the way of a nightlife here, but it was at least quiet and restive, and there was Wi-Fi.

For John he found it best to focus on his routines. Going up to his room to dress for dancing he put on a clean jock strap and skin-tight dance shorts and a loose vest. He packed ballet socks and shoes and leg warmers into a bag – and his jazz and tap shoes just in case. A water bottle. An energy bar. And talc and tape for his toes. He pulled on a pair of jogging bottoms over the top and slid on loosely laced trainers and a sweater for warmth, then headed downstairs. Seeing himself in the mirror in the hall, John saw a man who was tall, athletic and well muscled. Whose broad shoulders and strong hips spoke of perfection and strength and sex appeal. It might be the back of beyond here, but he felt good about himself.

In the yard, Jamie pulled up in his four by four and went to the reception to introduce himself. He was told he was expected and where to park and Jamie followed the instructions and then began unpacking his camera and equipment. He had only brought the basics, hoping that his own preference for a minimalist setup and a natural aesthetic might work out. In reality, Jamie knew he was flying blind. Jamie rarely photographed people in his artistic work. And when he did was it was less about the person and more about the atmosphere. A distant couple walking on a beach, that sort of thing. He had never photographed a professional dancer in his life, never mind an entire company of them.

A quote by Oscar Wilde popped into his head, _‘Be yourself’_ , The man had said, _‘Everyone else is taken’_. Jamie didn’t know how to be any photographer other than Jamie Fraser. It would have to do for today.

In fact, it probably wouldn’t be a bad idea to come back out later when the light had moved around and get some wide-angle shots of the exterior of the school and the landscape. There was a wee cnoc behind the car park through some trees that looked like it would provide a good vantage point.

Jamie was greeted at reception by an older lady he knew from his family’s church. Not that he was particularly good at going these days. They exchanged a few passing notes about the weather and crofting and the price of sheep and Mrs MacIntyre noted the camera approvingly. “I don’t see why they need to fly people in from all over the world when we’ve got local talent right here,” Mrs Macintyre folded her hands and smiled a satisfied smiled.

Jamie shifted awkwardly and tried to be polite. “Thank you, Mrs MacIntyre. I think this is a bit more specialist than I’m used to but I appreciate the support.”

He was offered a cup of tea or coffee, which he declined and was shown through the building to the studio room.

“If you come to the kitchen later, Jamie, I’ll make sure you get some sweet tea and a wee bannock,” Mrs MacIntyre winked at him and squeezed his bicep. Jamie couldn’t help but laugh. The poor woman didn’t seem to know whether to treat him as the wee lad who had followed his parents around or the strapping man that she saw now. Still, it was all in good spirits and you had to take your blessings where you could find them.

In her shin-length tweed skirt and Shetland wool cardigan, Mrs MacIntyre was the picture of of a woman who had spent her entire life in the highlands of Scotland. Her accent was soft with a hint of a Gaelic lilt to it and Jamie deferred to her as she opened the studio door to let him in.

The first to come and greet him was a man in his forties, with sharply cut greying hair and tortoiseshell glasses. He had an artfully worn suit jacket on and a way of carrying himself that smacked of being slightly pretentious. When he spoke he projected his voice and his arms waved in grand gestures that directed everyone around the room.

Jamie disliked him immediately, but did his best not to show it.

“Seumas, isn’t it?”

  
“Jamie,” Jamie corrected, striving for politeness.

“Right, of course. Hamish here is going be taking some photographs today...” Jamie bit his bottom lip and stared hard over the man’s shoulder, accidentally making eye contact with one of the dancers who seemed to know exactly what was going on and was struggling to keep it all in.

Jamie thought it was best to just ignore the prat in the suit and get on with his job. He took himself over into a corner and began to unpack his equipment bag, noting the complexities of the natural light from the windows and the harsh florescent lights overhead. He got out his laptop and opened his software and turned the camera on and looked out his lenses.

It was as well he had something to focus on. The one thing Jamie hadn’t reckoned on when he’d accepted the job was the eyeful he would get. Dancing was one thing when it was done in a kilt or a long skirt at a ceilidh or the highland games. Or even in jeans and a t-shirt. The clothes that this lot wore left literally nothing to the imagination. He could see the women’s bras, the nipples through their tops and the crux of their thighs. The men’s jock straps were visible beneath dancer’s tights that showed the crack of their arse and the outline of their testicles. It was borderline pornographic and Jamie felt he could have done with a bit of warning. Odder still was the fact that everyone in the room seemed to consider it perfectly normal.

Jamie focused hard on a small scrape on the dark non-slip floor and distracted himself with the sight of their shoes and kit lining one wall. As a trial run he made adjustments for light and focus and took a few tester shots. Moving around, Jamie saw that from a certain angle the morning light from outside reflected in the mirrors, putting the dancers in silhouette against the landscape outside, the rolling grass and heather and the lonely form of a hazel tree that had not yet come into leaf. He felt eyes on him and looked up to find the man who had made eye contact earlier watching him from across the room.

For John Grey, when the door to the studio opened, his manners left him along with a part of his heart. He had never believed in love at first sight. It was hard to believe in love at all sometimes, and the only time he had felt it had been so long ago, and so tragic in its end, that John preferred not to think about Hector. Forever sixteen.

The man who came in was not the man who was promised. This was not the splashy American photographer they had all been expecting. Whoever he was he was tall, athletic and magnetic. His manner said confident, but self effacing; honest but not rude. Thoughtful. Humble. Quiet.

Sharp.

Maybe John was reading too much, seeing things that weren’t there. And then the Director said his name wrong several times in a row and they made eye contact across a crowded room in silent laughter.

John Grey was smitten. He felt his breakfast clench in his stomach as he pretended to carry on as normal while surreptitiously watching the man out of the corner of his eye. His unruly red hair and high cheekbones and those sharp blue eyes that saw through you when they came your way.

Down in London, hookups were easy. There were apps, and there were gay bars, and it was more acceptable than ever for men to date men. Up here, with no phone signal and far fewer people, John didn’t know how it went and wondered if he might have to be a bit old school about this to show off his interest.

The first thing that Jamie saw was the feet. The softest white leather that creased when it moved perfectly encasing the curves of strong dancing feet. The arch of the instep, the careful placing of steps as he walked in the way that only dancers did. The jutting out of the ankle bone and the way the tendons rippled around it with every careful, considered movement leading up to muscular calves, rippling thighs and then – finally – the smallest tightest pair of shorts Jamie thought he had ever seen that showed off the crease of his groin and betrayed how he'd dressed his cock.

Jamie pulled his eyes away and wondered on what planet glorified socks and a jock strap were acceptable work wear. He gave himself a dressing down and told himself to be professional as he pressed down through his toes and in one smooth movement unrolled his body to standing.

He was greeted with warm brown eyes, an interested open face and a private school haircut of sweeping brown locks, expensively cut and swept back. Jamie stared at those eyes and wondered what he should say.

His mind went blank.

After a long moment, Jamie shook himself down and wondered if he shouldn’t have accepted that coffee with Mrs MacIntosh. ' _Socialise'_ , he reminded himself, and accepted the offer of handshake.

“John Grey.”  
  


“Jamie Fraser.”

“Local?”  
  


“Aye,” Jamie nodded. The handshake went on too long, John’s hand lingering in his own in a way that made Jamie uncomfortable and he carefully withdrew it, seeing a sort of light die in John’s eyes as he did so and wondered what that was about.

As John walked back to his colleagues, Jamie let his eyes fall once again on John’s muscular legs, on the contained power they exuded, the strength of his back where bare skin showed around the way the loosely cut vest draped. The grace of his form. It was magnetic and arresting. Jamie lifted his camera and took a shot of the whole of the group, John closest to Jamie and with his back turned.

The rehearsal started out with barre work. The female dancers might look slight and spindly but Jamie wouldn’t bet against them in a fight. Their flexibility and strength was matched only with their grace and confidence. Warmups, stretches, legs in positions that Jamie would have thought would break anyone else.

When it came to the rehearsing itself the director was strong-willed about his ideas. His modern-inspired choreography completely different from the classical training Jamie had just seen. A rippling miasma of limbs often cut short by errors, or corrections, or interruptions. They drilled and corrected and changed and experimented with movement. It was an insight into another creative form, he supposed. And Jamie snapped away, uploading the best ones at lunch and going through them.

Jamie had always considered himself to be an open minded sort of guy. He was absolutely fine with men being gay, he just didn’t understand it exactly. But if that was what they wanted to do he really didn’t care. Now as Jamie looked through his photographs and began to process the events of the morning, those feelings were starting to change.  
  
Oh the female dancers were pretty and graceful but it was the male dancers in particular that Jamie found himself lingering on. Some of them were all slight forms and grace, long arms and straight legs. But a few of them were more built than that, all rippling strength and constrained power and yet wrapped up in such exactitude and confidence that Jamie found the combination arresting, and oddly touching.

Jamie was invited to join the company for lunch and rather unfortunately found himself sharing a table with the hot shot director, who claimed to have some sort of bold creative vision he wasn’t willing to let anyone – least of all the dancers themselves – get in the way of. Jamie put on his best effort at ignoring the attitude problem and politely nodded his way through the Director’s creative monologue. From time to time when he thought his lunch partner wouldn’t notice, Jamie released himself from the torment by allowing himself a look around the room and found John watching him. Those deep, warm eyes sparkling with mirth and something more. Their eyes connected, communicated, comprehended. A moment of stillness calm in a room full of noise.

A sharp, pointed, clearing of the throat snapped Jaime back to the fascinating discourse on the Director’s creative genius.

Jamie wondered how the rest of his colleagues could stand him.

After lunch there was more stretching, more rehearsal work and more complaints from the Director. What could have been a relaxed atmosphere grew tense as dancers were snapped at for talking, for minor technical failings or for inadequately realising the Director’s ideas. Jamie could hardly blame the dancers themselves for being keen to take a break at any opportunity and after a while he got the idea to follow them outside, and took some rather nice black and white images of the dancers relaxed and laughing in the studio courtyard. With several hours of rehearsal under their belts, the Director at John’s urging reluctantly agreed to let them break up and have a rest. Jamie noted that several of the other dancers came over to thank John for sticking up for them and Jamie caught a snap of one reaching out to touch John’s shoulder.

It wasn’t his usual fare, but Jamie thought he had acquitted himself tolerably, all things considered and while the dancers returned to their rooms, Jamie went back outside and had a walk around the grounds. The light had moved around enough to show off the new studio to best advantage and he enjoyed playing about with framing and focus. A few showers had passed over earlier in the day and the dampness still clung to the trees, bringing out the colours in the bark. It made Jamie think of the extraordinary variety of colour in tweeds, drawn from the natural world.

A group of hooded crows flew over and Jamie captured the moment they all banked into the same gust of wind, reminding him so much of the way the dancers might turn altogether. Up in the window of his room, John Grey watched Jamie at his work, finding a sort of peace to it. He remembered the eye-popping astonishment Jamie had been unable to hide at the revealing clothing of the male dancers and the surreptitious looks Jamie had sneaked all through the rest of rehearsal. Those locked gazes across crowded rooms. John couldn’t help but hope.

Of course, as was too often the case he didn’t seem gay. Didn’t seem much of anything, really. Jamie Fraser was notably a little too neutral. He wasn’t giving off any signs of being eager for a hookup, unfortunately. But John’s heart seemed to have decided it didn’t matter. His head knew that he should lie down and rest his legs. His heart wanted John to rush down there and beg the man to let him spend time in his company. Instead John pulled himself away and gave himself a talking to. No good came of chasing after straight men, even if they did like your legs.

Looking for some solitude and solace, John grabbed his jacket and headed down to the beach.

It was getting towards the end of the afternoon when Jamie started packing up to go. He would look over the photographs tonight and pick the best ones for submission. Since he was down this way anyway and it was nearly sunset, Jamie figured he might as well take the four-by-four up the offroad track along the coast and catch the sunset. He still had another couple of hours of daylight to use, after all, and his equipment was right here.

It was a little distance along that Jamie parked the car, pulled out his flask of hot black coffee and poured himself a drink. For all that the people here were good at hard work, there was nothing more that they liked than to take a moment to sit and watch the world go by. To contemplate.

Seascapes were good for that.

To watch the waves and smell the fresh salt air and listen to the seagulls call. A cormorant sat on a rock and after finishing his drink Jamie unpacked his camera and went to take its photograph as it stood sunning itself in the sunset. After a long day surrounded by people, it was good to get out amongst nature and the fresh air, to have a walk and clear his head. Jamie headed down towards the beach and found a nook of sorts in the sand dunes, out of the wind. From his vantage point while sitting still he hoped he might catch an otter, or a seal. Instead it was the cows from the common that appeared, coming down to eat lounge on the shore and Jamie watched them, smiling. They had such distinct personalities and since they were all owned by people Jamie knew, he knew all of the cows too and lifted his camera as one sat down and one began nosing at seaweed.

With his camera to his eye, Jamie spotted something else further off and zoomed in. A walker, all alone. And with sunset coming. Sometimes those ones were Jamie’s favourite. The ones with the people, far off. Shrunk by the landscape to minute figures. The windswept beach escalated to grandeur by the lone figure of a human being. The person sped up to a jog for a while and then slowed down to a walk.

Time seemed to disappear as Jamie watched the figure’s slow progress along the shore, heading up towards the rocks on the point. Sheltered in his little spot in the dunes and with the cows further concealing his presence, Jamie was able to hide himself away as the figure suddenly changed and twirled and lifted their arms in the air.

One of the dancers, then. It was a moment that photographers debated about. Did you respect a person’s privacy or go for the shot? As Jamie watched the dancer move without music, twirling and spinning and curling up in ball he could see that this was an expression of self, of confusion and turmoil to which no one was meant to bear witness. And all danced with a fierceness that took Jamie’s breath away.

Instinctively, Jamie lifted his camera to his eye.

He would regret it forever if he didn’t.

Out on the sand John span out of his last turn and threw his arms into the air with a sigh. His head spinning slightly from spotting. He walked a few steps and then jogged and went through the motions for a take-off, with no power behind it. The sand was far too soft. Going down the a beach a little the sand was firmer here and then firmer still. John tried the motion again and then let himself go. Leaping, landing, rolling, twisting. Letting his inner turmoil and loneliness flow out through his limbs until they were leaden and exhausted and he took one last running leap and launched himself into the sky.

The sound of the shutter click a short distance away, unbeknownst to John, was carried off in the wind.

He stood still then, his limbs tired but his mind all the clearer and watched the sunset. John made a pose, and then shook his head laughing, a full-bodied laugh that filled his lungs with sharp air and cleared the cobwebs from his mind. Still chuckling, for no particular reason, John turned his back on the sea and walked towards a lonely thornbush above the shore whose branches were all swept inland by the wind. Using the trunk as a support, John went through some basic leg work and stretches. Pointing his toe to his calf, stretching his leg out behind him, lowering his torso down to horizontal and reaching out with his hand. He stopped in the end, and walked out to the point of rock he’d been aiming for to take in the pink and peach and blue and grey and gold of the sea and the sky. Sitting hugging his knees in the light of a perfect West Highland sunset.

Jamie thought about sneaking away. He had got what he came for, after all. But then he considered that that was probably the cowardly option. Instead Jamie sat and watched the sea as the light fell and when John turned around and followed the top of the beach back the way he had come John was stopped by the sight of a familiar man amongst the dunes, surrounded by cattle, toying with a head of grass.

“What are you doing here?”  
  
“Taking your photograph,” Jamie replied honestly.

John froze, rooted to the spot. Jamie looked down at his feet and then up at the horizon and sighed. “I came out to see the sunset.”

Slowly John began to walk his way and sat himself down beside Jamie in the dunes.

Silence.

“You weren’t expecting what happened at the studio, were you?” John asked.

“I’ll admit I was a bit taken aback by the clothing choices,” Jamie noted. Thankfully John was wearing a little more now than he was then and for all that it was a little breezy, the evening was mild and balmy.

“You saw me dancing just now, didn’t you?” John asked carefully.

“Does that bother you?” Jamie asked.

“Not as much as it should,” John found himself staring at Jamie and wanting to kiss him. He should have felt violated, but since most of John's torment was about him, he didn't have the heart to be mad. In fact, now he knew that Jamie had seen, John wanted to see the photographs. Wanted to see what Jamie saw of him. This man he barely knew. “Will you let me see the pictures?”

“Will you let me use the pictures?”  
  


“I don’t know,” John’s eyes focused on Jamie, on the freckles on his face, on the way that silly curl dropped over his forehead just so...

Jamie felt the man’s eyes on him again. Eyes that settled on him and did not move.

“Why do you keep staring at me?” Jamie asked.

“Because you’re nice to look at. You can stare at me too if you like.” John reached out a hand and touched Jamie’s. A hand that was promptly snatched away.

“I’m not gay,” Jamie said.

“You just window shop?” John pressed.

“I don’t anything!” Jamie exclaimed angrily. “I’m sorry to shout I just...” Jamie took in a deep breath, “I guess I’m a little confused about today. We should probably be getting you back.”

John didn’t get up. “What are you confused about?”

“Nothing.”  
  


“My guess is you’re confused that you liked what you saw. And you don’t know how to handle that.”

Jamie silently fumed. A complete stranger, digging around in his head. Pushing everyone of his buttons, things he didn’t so much as admit to himself. Yes, alright, if pushed, he hadn’t exactly minded staring at John’s wee pert buttocks in those tiny shorts. Not with those legs, anyway. Liked watching the way his muscles worked as he moved, the way he bent and stretched and spread his arms. The way the light catching John’s sweaty muscles brought to mind the flow of clear water over wave marks in the sand. His mind wandered off until Jamie realised he was staring again. “I need to get home and process these photographs. I’ll drop you off on the way.”

This was how John found himself in a battered old four by four rattling along a rutted track – not a road – and watching Jamie Fraser drive.

“I don’t suppose there’s an option that involves not being dropped off?”

  
“No.”

“If I absolutely promise not to hit on you, will you please take me somewhere where I can spend a few hours away from that sociopathic, bastard director?” John pressed.

That made Jamie smile. The guy was a complete arse, that much was true.

“I’m not giving you a lift back,” Jamie warned. “I’m drinking whisky tonight.”

John grinned from ear to ear.

Jamie’s place was a small but cosy ground floor flat on the edge of town. There was an open plan kitchen and living room, a modest bathroom and one bedroom at the back. The pub and the main street were a ten minute walk where there were was also a co-op, a chip shop and a couple of hotels with restaurants. Jamie let them both in and told John to make himself at home. He pointed out the phone so John could call the dance school and tell them loudly he had absconded.

In the bathroom, with the door closed, Jamie looked at himself in the mirror and asked himself what he was doing. He had brought a strange man home. A man who was clearly interested. And who had been part of a work project today. Jamie wasn’t even gay. All he did know was that when he looked at John, Jamie couldn’t look away. That when he had the offer of his company, Jamie didn’t want to say no.

John was standing in the living room when he came back, looking at the family photos Jamie had on the mantle. And the arty ones that he had on the walls. Jamie let him be and wondered what to say. He offered John a drink.

“Just a glass of water, for now.”  
  


Jamie gave him his glass and lit the fire he had built that morning. Jamie liked the smell of peat better but it took forever to get a peatfire lit and so he mostly stuck to wood.

“I thought you were joking about the fire. You can't really have fires in London.”

“I like a fire,” Jamie agreed, pleased that John liked it. Quite why he was making the effort Jamie couldn’t say. “I’ve got pasta for dinner.”

“Pasta sounds wonderful,” John’s eyes softened and he felt a lump in his throat as his shoulders relaxed for the first time in a long time.

They talked awkwardly. Both seeming to realise that there was something going on. Jamie had never been on a date with a man and hadn’t really thought before launching himself into this one. But that was all that he could think this was with the direction it was going.

“So you’re a photographer,” John probed.

“I take some photographs,” Jamie clarified, “My mother was an artist. I run a small business locally and I help on the family croft and I help with the paper. I do a bit of copy-writing freelance and I sell a few photos as a hobby.”

“I dance,” John replied, making both Jamie and himself laugh.

They ate their pasta and talked about Jamie’s family and John evaded the subject about his own. After dinner they moved to the fireplace and Jamie poured them both whisky. If he had been on his own Jamie would have gotten his laptop out around now to look at the photos. As it was, John hadn't yet asked and Jamie wasn't quick to prompt him to do so. It was only once they had gotten to know each other a littler and with the distraction of the crackling fire before them that John began to open up about his family. His brother, his childhood.

He didn’t say it, but Jamie could sense the loneliness. Was that what had come out in his dance out on the beach?

Jamie wanted to kiss away his sorrows, and so he did, leaning in and waiting for a pushback that never came. John closed the last inches and tilted his head and Jamie kissed him. Jamie thought he’d better make sure and leaned into kiss him again and felt his insides melt and his stomach drop.

Jamie didn’t have words for this, but when he pulled away he found that he didn’t regret it, and let it be.

As Jamie went away to fetch his laptop, John reminded himself he didn’t believe in love at first sight. He sipped his whisky and stared into the fire and felt the absolute peace of this moment. Jamie came back with his laptop and fired it up and looked at the photos from the studio. The photos of John he let John look at by himself, and wandered off to the bedroom to take a breather and wonder what the hell was happening. John clearly wasn’t going anywhere, and Jamie wasn’t asking him to. In the end when Jamie went back out John had the laptop lid closed, and said nothing. Staring into the flames.

“I still don’t know what this is,” Jamie said, hoping at least one of them did. They still hardly knew each other and yet there was a connection there that was unmistakable, and new, and scary and brilliant. And held potential for a whole lot of things that Jamie wasn’t prepared for. “You can have the other side of the bed, if you want.”

John grabbed Jamie’s hand and squeezed it.

Later, in the bedroom, Jamie stood pressed against the mirror with John’s firm hand around his cock, gasping an orgasm into the man’s ear.

Later still they lay in bed with boxers on, listening to the rain. Neither saying a word.

In the morning John kissed him, and then paused, and then wished him a good morning and left the room. Jamie heard the shower go and let John be, his hand reaching out to the warm side of the bed and wondering if he had messed things up and whether you could mess up something if you didn’t even know what it was.

John surprised Jamie at breakfast by still being there. Eating toast and pressing black coffee in Jamie’s hands and looking in rather a hurry.

“I’ll give you lift,” Jamie offered. “I’ve got time before work.”

“You’re not coming back?”

Jamie shook his head. “I got an email from the magazine. Their photographer got a flight up from London last night.”

Jamie looked at John’s eyes and found them a touch sad and entirely focused on him. It made Jamie feel self conscious until John leaned in and kissed him hard. “I want to see you again. Will you think about it?”

“Alright. I’ll think about it.”

In no time at all it was deja vu as he was back in Jamie’s four-by-four racing along pot-holed roads to get to rehearsal on time.

“You should use the photos,” John told him.  
  


“Do you like them, then?” Jamie pressed.

John stared out the window but didn’t answer for a while. “I don’t really like what they show. I like that you somehow saw _me._ ” John explained. “Call it a gift, and know that you use them with my blessing.”

Jamie wondered what that meant. Admittedly he hadn’t really had a chance to have a proper look at them himself. But he was well aware that if there were any good ones in there that John’s name was enough to help him make a name for himself.

In the car park outside the studio, Jamie parked and silence fell except for the sharp chirping of a small bird in a nearby pine tree.

“When you look me up,” John said, with a hint of self-deprecating amusement. “Please ignore the title.”

Jamie’s eyebrows rose.

John leaned in and pecked Jamie on the cheek.

As John waltzed back inside, Jamie opened the window to look at the birds and breathe in the fresh Highland air.

A blue tit sat on a Scots pine and quickly fluttered away.

Back at home Jamie got out the laptop and made more coffee. Slowly and carefully he went through the photographs from the day before. Noting the good ones and the ones he was most interested in. He was no expert at capturing dancers but Jamie himself could admit to being captivated by their strength and flexibility. Their bodies, their feet. The contraction of a supple, reaching arch of a foot and stretching leather. He paused for a long time to stare at one he’d taken of John in those absurdly small shorts coming out of a perfect _pirouette_.

It was the photographs on the beach that stood out as Jamie’s natural habitat. The openness of the landscape, the contrast of weather and sky, of land and sea. Of old and new. A highland cow and a thorn. A moment of torture and ecstasy as John’s contorted body stood out, alone amidst the seascape and the shore. John, poised with lifted leg at the thorn bush – _arabesque_ – a highland cow staring. Another captured a magnificent leap, arms and legs extended, framed by the arc of the shore reaching out towards the headland and the dance school just visible in the distance.

Jamie chose his favourites and then let it lie for a while and then went for a walk into town to do some errands. He thought about whether he should go and see John as he talked about the price of sheep feed in the hardware store and the latest catches from the local fishing boats. He went up to Lallybroch to help Iain with the _fold_ and then to the pub to watch the shinty with the lads. A multitude of things to keep him busy as Jamie’s mind ticked along in the background, thinking about John and looking up ballet terms on the internet.

On the third day Jamie parked up along the shore and walked back towards the studio and laughed at the piercing sound of the bossy director’s voice carried on the wind. Standing from a distance he watched them all load up and the coach drive away, Jamie sent John a soft-spoken parting in gàidhlig, carried on the wind.

He went home and made his submissions and wrote up some copy for the local paper about a prestigious dance company visiting the studio.

A new seascape went onto his website. A still of the beach and the highland cows.

Highland cows always did well.

The following week John phoned up to correct Jamie’s article that the term he wanted wasn’t _pirouette_ but _fouette_ and _relevé_ had an accent on the ‘e’.

“Since when did you read the Broch Mordha Community Herald, _Lord John_?”

“I told you to ignore the title.”

“ _Lord_ ,” Jamie pressed.

“I need you to tell me when you’re free so I can fly you down to see the show – and don’t try and argue, you won’t get anywhere.”

Jamie flew down on the same day the magazine article published. They had mostly used the professional dance photographer’s pictures of the dancers themselves, which wasn’t much of a surprise. What was a surprise was the cheque they sent for using a few of Jamie’s own. He hadn’t seen the article yet, but Jamie allowed himself to be quietly proud and wondered if he’d made the right or wrong choice in packing his kilt.

John met him off the flight with wide eyed delight. He waited for Jamie to initiate a hug and when it didn’t come John only smiled and took his bag and took him outside to find a cab.

“I’ve booked you into a hotel,” John said. “I’ve got rehearsals before the show but if you have time to meet after we could grab a late meal?”

“Aye,” Jamie nodded, wondering about the wisdom of this. It was good to see John. And they still hadn’t talked.

In his room was a copy of the magazine with a note from John, compliments on the photographs. Jamie was surprised to note one of his wide angle exterior shots of the studio had made the front page. A landscape that showed off the studio’s setting of the sea and the trees and the glen. It was an idyllic sunset shot, with a few sheep and highland cattle from the common grazing in the distance and the pine trees framing the buildings. It was an honour, Jamie supposed, and good press for the local studio too. The couple that ran it were putting their soul into the place. Jamie sent them a message with his congratulations.

It seemed the Scottish setting of the story had been unexpectedly popular and with the piece now having been published, Jamie had the freedom to use his picture on his own website as well.

He was already seeing sales go up.

John sent a car to pick him up a good while before the actual show and had a staff member bring him in through the stage door at the back. John was standing in a corridor outside a series of dressing rooms saying goodbye to an older, well-dressed couple.

Jamie hung back and watched them go and watch John’s face looking after them wistfully. His stance proper, has back straight, his hands clasped. Jamie cleared his throat and John turned round and instant happiness bloomed in his expression.

“Jamie! You came!”

“It seems that I did,” Jamie acknowledged and then awkwardly, haltingly, leaned in to kiss John on the cheek.

John kissed him back like he’d hung the moon.

Jamie tilted his head. “John, I still don’t know what this is.”  
  


“Never mind what it is. It only matters that you’re here,” John stared at Jamie’s face, drinking it in. Noting the new freckles and the way the skin around his eyes wrinkled when he smiled. The self-effacing break in his gaze when Jamie stared at the floor, self conscious, and then looked up again.

“Were those your parents?”

  
  
“My mother and my stepfather. He’s a sort of important,” John said and then waved the thought away. “You can meet them if you want.”

“Maybe later,” Jamie said softly. So he hadn’t been imagining it. His whole body ready did sing when he looked at John.

So that’s what this was.

Completely buggered then, Jamie thought with a smile. The heat of emotion reddening his eyes.

He let John drag him into his dressing room and laughed when John kissed him again and rattled away, not in the least self-conscious about whatever state of passing nudity he happened to be in at any given moment. Performers passed outside in the hall. Stage hands ran back and forth. That awful director popped his head in at one point and nodded at Jamie, surprised to see him there. Jamie didn’t have his fancy camera, but he had a small one he kept handy and couldn’t resist taking a few shots of John and other things going on backstage.

“Jamie,” John hesitated at one point, “There is one thing I should probably tell you. You know how you gave the dance company permission to use the photographs that you took?”

“Aye they wanted to put one in the programme, I got an email,” Jamie shrugged. “I confess I didn’t really read the detail except for the payment part.”

John nodded carefully and warily, and looked like he might want to add something, and then dropped it.

John even dragged him onto the stage as the company did their warm-ups before the show with the curtain down. Stage lights on, after fifteen minutes of warm-ups, John stood for a moment with his back turned, looking straight downstage in _fifth position_ , arms aloft. Every dimple of muscle in his shoulders glistening under the stage lights. His bulging hamstrings and taught buttocks and flexing calves all in line. A display of controlled power and masculinity interwove with an elegant grace.

Jamie kneeled down, proud and slightly emotional and lined up his shot.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur. Being shown to his seat. Looking at the programme, Jamie froze.

Jamie’s photo wasn’t in the programme. It was right on the front, just like the magazine. That breathtaking photo of John on the beach lit by the highland sunset. ‘Cheque’s in the post’, a post-it note. John's writing.

Watching the show was an experience in itself. A stunning, bold, modernist vision of a traditional tale. John found him afterwards and dragged him out front to show Jamie the poster on the wall.

“John, tell me you didn’t pull any strings,” Jamie said, staring up at the absurdly huge and eye-catching image covering the front of the theatre building.

“I didn’t pull any strings I may have just pointed out the photographs on your site that the magazine didn’t use and the rest they did all by themselves.”

Jamie shook his head. “You looked so lonely and forlorn. Tortured, almost. It seemed so private that I almost didn’t take that at all.”

John wanted to respond but was cut off by something catching his eye a little way off and tried to warn Jamie. “Uh, Jamie. About that discussion...my parents are coming.”

* * *

‘ _Next on the show we have Scottish photographer Jamie Fraser who has become famous for his moving collaboration with his husband, the dancer John Grey. Jamie is also known for his landscape photographs of the area around his home in the small highland village of Broch Mordha. Jamie and John, who split their time between Scotland and London have made time to be with us today to talk about their new exhibition…’_

On a beach by the common above Broch Mordha, Jamie turned the radio off in his vehicle, leaving John alone on the beach where he'd dropped him off and headed on over the common to check the cows.

John liked to be alone out there. Processing time, with only the wind and the wildlife for company - selkies and otters and the solan goose.

John was between projects right now and was taking a bit of time out to come and teach at the studio. Though he still bemoaned the lack of gay clubs in the Highlands, it had become a cherished place to him in other ways. And John's time up here won Jamie plenty of Good Uncle points with his little nieces.

A few hours later John was walking back up into the rough grass along the shore when he heard a car door shut and looked up to see Jamie Fraser getting out of a four by four. He now wore an ironed shirt and a kilt, with a short leather jacket on top. John supposed he must be all done with the cows if he’d gone to the trouble of going home to change, and John’s heart squeezed at the sight of the man.

“Oh, its you,” Jamie greeted him. “John, isn’t it?”

John smiled at the sight of the man and let out a deep sigh. “I was just...” John waved vaguely at the beach and then stopped, realising Jamie didn’t mind. That he didn’t need an explanation. “...walking, I suppose.”

Jamie took a good look at him and slid his arms around John’s waist. Enjoying the way John’s strong body melted into his. After holding each other for a long time, Jamie kissed John on the mouth.

“Can I offer you a lift?”

“No, I don’t want to trouble you.”

“Its no trouble,” Jamie insisted and slid his hand into John’s. “Unless you’d rather walk.”

“I could probably be persuaded by a handsome stranger,” John smiled, enjoying the feel of the wedding ring on Jamie’s finger against his own. “Besides, you keep promising to show me Scottish country dancing.”

“And as I keep reminding you, all your performance contracts outlaw contact sports.”

“Dancing isn’t a contact sport.”

“That’s because you’ve never seen Highlanders dance,” Jamie grinned and dragged them both into the battered four wheel drive.

“We should never have had the wedding in London,” John grumbled. Forever now feeling robbed of a Highland one. “Maybe we should do it again and have a bit of a shindig up here?”

Jamie only laughed. John was certainly ready with any excuse for a party.

They were due at a gathering at the studio. An end of term celebration for students and locals and friends. The magazine piece had helped boost its profile and Jamie’s photographs were selling well enough that he was able to ease back a bit on other work. The studio’s international reputation was growing and several graduating students had secured work at prestigious ballet companies around the world.

There was much to celebrate.

Jamie's brother-in-law Iain was already at the barbeque, and the students had built a bonfire on the beach. There was a folk band playing traditional music to dance to and more food, still, to eat: a buffet of seafood from local restaurant supplemented with hot stovies and fresh oatcakes and the makings for cranachan by a huge pile of paper plates. A few neighbours had turned out too, and Jamie’s family and more folks would arrive as the night wore on.

Such was the way around here.

At nine in the evening a week past midsummer it was still broad daylight in Scotland, but fairy lights were strung between the pine trees by the shore giving the event a feeling of warmth and togetherness. Everywhere laughter rang, and folks joined in songs, and children ran around. Over there an elderly crofter told a story to the little ones. Over here a group of locals looped around arm in arm as the band warmed up.

It was the best, most heartfelt party that John had ever attended and for almost the first time in his life wasn’t missing his beloved London one bit. “Quite the party,” John commented quietly to Jamie.

“Aye, you think that now, just wait. Usually the band gradually gets drunk and then about eleven all the young gaels will turn up and then when the band starts flagging the rest of them pull out their fiddles and pipes and before you know it we’re all cursed to stay here 'til dawn.”

“I’m not sure _cursed_ is the right word.” John argued.

"Cursed," Jamie insisted. "Cannae leave or the faeries will steal ye."

John gave Jamie a long suffering look.

There was whisky, and dancing, and cranachan and stovies. And Jamie showed John how to birl. At three o’clock in the morning, clinging to each other for dear life as they spun their way down an Orcadian strip the willow, John sent a silent prayer to that unloved director and his eccentric, artistic ways.

Out of exile and loneliness had come a lover, a husband, a family and a home. A fulfilling creative life and a sense of self-worth.

Jamie had found a husband, his true self, and been blessed with a career.

The middle of nowhere, for John, had become the middle of here.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this listening to The Good Years by Karine Polwart. Its a nice one to round this off if you got to the end.
> 
> Bliadhna mhath ùr.
> 
> Happy New Year.


End file.
